Nathanael and Kathleen
by Rune-of-Iormangand
Summary: An ancient grudge, a time of strife, a pair of doomed lovers, Nathanael and Kathleen, Nathaniel and Kitty . . . Do you see the connection? Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet for the Bartimaeus genre.
1. PrePrologue

Hello! Sadly, life's become extremely condensed over the past few weeks, and still will be for another few. Still, I've managed to find time to add to stories and create new ones, like this . . .

Despite some sacrifices . . . I'll come to dinner, soon!

Anyway, that's too much about me. Not too long ago (last holidays, in fact) I came across this fan-created doujinshi (doujinshi, meaning 'fan comics', would naturally be created by fans) that I totally fell in love with the context of. It was: 'Slayers: Hamlet', and anyone who enjoys Slayers, or anime in general, should check it out at some point. It's discontinued, I think, but that's beside the point.

I thought, 'What a great idea!' (After thinking a great deal about download speeds and megabytes.) I thought, 'I've got to try that someday!' (I've got to get enough talent to produce something like that.) I thought, 'What about if I try that with 'The Bartimaeus Trilogy?' (Can I have another reason to procrastinate?) I thought, 'Hang on, does it have enough characters?' (Call myself a fan? I ought to know all personalities off by heart and have a couple of one-shots based around them.)

So, I read the manga, tried to draw, and got hit with schoolwork. 'Twas but a fond dream . . .

Until I hit upon an idea, made a count of characters, made lists, drew comparisons, and struck gold.

Romeo and Juliet!

Let's see what I can do!

Added Disclaimer: (Because Law is cool!) I do not own Shakespeare's work or the Bartimaeus Trilogy! Isn't that a twist?

* * *

The Prologue's prologue!

"OK, OK," says ROI, that's me, to her stagehand. "I got this idea, see, where there's this sketch show, and every chapter has a different gag and—"

"No," said Anna shortly.

"OK, how about this quiz show, see, with Canon characters discussing—" she was already bent over the keyboard.

"No," sighed Anna, pressing a hand against her forehead. "No more . . ."

"OK . . . well, how about this play—"

"No."

"I wasn't finished yet!" ROI says frostily, this time shutting her up with a glare. "A really well known one, and we can get characters from the books to fit the characters in the play, and we'll set it up, maybe with some new scenes and lines because I don't like using apostrophes crazily, and we can have interviews just like—"

"Just like the _Wizard of Ahz_?" suggested the dimmer stagehand Tony.

Anna flinches in preparation of another trademark glare, but instead the author slumps on her desk.

"Don't remind me!" she moans. "I'm already late and don't need reminding!"

"Just what is this play?" Anna asks cautiously, ROI's latest 'inventive ideas'' results fresh in her mind and sour in her pocket.

"Ah!" ROI perks up, happy as always to ramble on about something new nobody's tried yet. "It is the famous, or infamous, depending on your viewpoint: _Romeo and Juliet_ by William Shakespeare!"

The crew and remnants of the cast gape, whether in amazement or horror it was not wise to reveal to me.

"Cool!" Tony breaks the silence. "I always wanted to wear tights!"

/A Few Mental Days later

The cast stare at their brand old scripts in varying degrees of appreciation.

"I can't believe this is happening," said Kitty.

"Jubilation! I always love wearing tights!" said Makepeace enthusiastically.

"Oh, how romantic . . ." said Jane Farrar blissfully. "Finally, I can have a respectable outlet . . ."

The 'director' (Whee! And some say I couldn't direct a tea party!) walks in, dressed in stereotypical directors' gear with weird pants, ugly top, pointless and flat hat and useless boots (because I can hardly afford to make something _original_ for myself, can I?)

"OK!" shouts ROI, her necessary author powah making her voice loud and clear to everyone. "Now, although all of you got your average half-a-kilogram scripts, you don't have your individual parts yet, right?"

"I'll play any role!" said Makepeace grandly. "Be it heroic or comic spoof! Be it protagonist or antagonist! Be it even male or female!"

Nathaniel could barely disguise his chuckle with his hand.

"Oh, don't laugh Mr Mandrake," said ROI, turning to him. "I THINK YOU— whoops, author powers off— I think you'd make a fine rosy-cheeked Juliet."

Nathaniel blushed in a perfect Juliet— I told him— way.

Bartimaeus was guffawing without restraint. "Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding!"

"Maybe," said the director turning to him. "You could have a very flexible role."

Bartimaeus shut up.

"Now, due to it being a stereotype, cliché, and in my opinion the most boring part of the play, the roles for Romeo and Juliet are most important, so I need to decide that first. Unlike in _Ahz_; damn it, what was I thinking not even resolute on a Cowardly Lion?"

The cast and crew stare meaningfully.

"Shut up! Anyway, I've written a bunch of names on scraps of paper and put them in this hat," ROI produced a ten-gallon hat by magic. "The two names I pull out will become Romeo and Juliet, depending on personality fits and comic potential as well. Alright, let's go!"

As ROI reaches into the hat, using the 4U7H0R 5K1LL of suspensive slow motion, the cast wait in anticipation.

_Please Bartimaeus/Kitty, Please Bartimaeus/Kitty, please . . ._ Nathaniel thought.

_Please Mandrake/Farrar, Please Mandrake/Farrar, OR ELSE_ though Jane.

Please Mandrake/Farrar, Please Mandrake/Farrar, thought Kitty. 

_Please Bartimaeus/Queezle, please— wait, on second thoughts, go Nat/Jane_, thought Bartimaeus.

"Nathaniel . . ." ROI read slowly.

_Oh, alright! Mandrake/Farrar then!_ Nathaniel allowed.

ROI finally pulled out the second piece of paper (take note: use slow-motion level **3** for mild anticipation results). She scrutinizes it: her expression and the name unreadable.

"Kitty," she said finally, and ate the piece.

At least half the cast was in an uproar.

"What? With a Commoner? Are you mad?" Nathaniel demanded.

"What? With a Magician? Are you mad?" Kitty demanded.

"A Commoner and a Magician? This _is_ mad!" Bartimaeus was practically rolling in fits of laughter.

"A Commoner and a Magician? Nat/Kitty? That is so damn canon!" Jane Farrar shouted.

As the cast either revolted or laughed (or did both, in some talented cases), ROI whispers conspiratorially to the audience.

"Yeah, Canon, but what can you do? The second one said _Lovelace!_"

* * *

"Oh, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Lovelace?" questioned Nathaniel. 

"But soft! What light through yonder windows breaks? It is the East, and Nathaniel is the star!" announces Lovelace.

I mean, seriously! What can you do?


	2. The Prologue

Salutations! Did you think I would start a parody without any of the stuff it was parodying? Seriously!

Anyway, here is, at least, the prologue. I might work on the first scene, or _The Wizard of Ahz_, but it all depends on my temperament, creative wells and the placements of the stars in conjunction to the patterns of animals.

Here we go! I mean: With great anticipation, we embark!

Added Disclaimer: (Because Law is scary) I have no power over Shakespeare's work, the Bartimaeus Trilogy, Kokamo by the Beach boys, asides from my powers of interpretation! Fear my interpretative wrath!

* * *

The Prologue

"But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the Glorious Meteor of the East!" said Nathaniel soulfully.

"Oh, Nathaniel, Nathaniel, wherefor art thou Mandrake?" begged Bartimaeus.

ROI takes another bite out of the piece of paper. "Still got 19 more to go."

Under the . . . supposedly sunny skies of London (a place in England, dudes), two classes battle in the streets. The grudge is older than most of the valiant battlers (but not most of the non-valiant servants). This conflict has got very tense and cliff-hangy. Within in immensely allegorical place, two teenager . . . ish meet and canon love blooms. So begins the romance in . . . in . . .

: Researching :

Nathanael and Kathleen!

"_Kathleen?_" screeches Kitty as in the way of her name.

"You misspelt my name," said Nathaniel, sourly.

"No way!" said the happy ROI cheerfully. "See, Shakespeare based a lot of his plays on traditional stories, and the source for Romeo and Juliet on _The Tragic History of Romeus and Juliet_ by Arthur Broke, but he changed some of the anti-free-love morals, and made the Nurse and Mercutio all-round cooler characters, although the Broke guy also got his material from somewhere else, which had pirates . . . that turn into animated corpses while under moonlight due to a terrible curse and . . . Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp fight for attention . . . in hot springs . . . and nobody's listening to me, are they?"

"I don't _care_ about dimensional inconsistencies!" shouted Nathaniel into his cell-phone to his chaffer. "Just get me out of here!"

"Nick? It's OK, forget about all the cowardly yellow-bellied-ness. Can you drive? Can you navigate an inter-dimensional vehicle of some sort? Wait a sec," Kitty dropped more coins into the payphone. "Yeah, can you hear me? There ought to be a prototype in the nearest convenient mad-scientist facility. He should only have modified cyborgs, nothing like that deranged afrit that you ran away like a scaredy little chicken boy and left— Hello? Hello? Damn, what's Anne's number?"

BZZT!

"Sorry," said ROI, lazily swinging a telephone cord. "You won't be getting out of this so easily . . ."

Nathaniel tapped buttons on his cell-phone. "But this broadcast signals to satellites."

"And I don't know how payphones work, but they don't have cords," Kitty pointed out.

ROI looks at the source-less phone cord in her hand.

"It's symbolic, OK?" she shouts.

"No, _you're_ symbolic!" called an irritating OC from another story.

Nathaniel tried to work his SMS, but the cell let out a sudden screech and started playing Beach Boys _Kokamo_.

"Yeah, that'll work," ROI muttered, then reverted to author-exaggerated announcing. "Anyway, everybody off, yeah, that's 'Nathanael' and 'Kathleen' too. She's not even in the first act. We've got the chorus to do their bit, introduce everybody, and I've got to organize a list and costumes and settings and stuff . . . or I could just do it as I go. Alright, everyone offstage 'cept for the chorus!"

"Who is?" asked Bartimaeus hopefully. "Is it me? Then I can get all my lines over in one go."

"Nope," said ROI, shaking her finger. "I've got just the _perfect_ person for the job . . ."

"Me!" squealed Nittles, buzzing onto scene.

"Uh . . ." ROI mumbled. "Actually, it's Makepeace."

"ME?" gasped Makepeace in delight.

"'Im?" gasped Nittles in affront.

There is nothing but a great royal blue curtain to be seen. The lighting sweeps across it briefly, then settles and dims on the centre of the empty stage.

A lone piano picks up the simple melody of _Theme - Romeo and Juliet_ by Henri Mancini. It ornaments as a figure enters the stage, and pauses in the centre.

The violins accompany; Makepeace spins sharply to face the front, and begins, with all the inflection, dynamics and atmospheric pauses I could not get in no less than half a lifetime in Speech and Drama.

"_Two classes, both alike in distinction,_

_In famed London, where we begin our scene_

_From subtle grudge, burst forth new rebellion,_

_Where eldritch secrets make eldritch hands unseen:_

_By born the blighted best of both these beasts,_

_A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life:_

_By misadventures and deep-reaching blows,_

_Doth with their death bury their parents' strife._

_The evocative passage of doomed equals,_

_And the endlessness of the working slaves,_

_That nothing but most sacrifice would quell,_

_Will be the many chapters of these pages._

_The which if you with patient eyes attend,_

_What here shall miss, our recaps strive to mend._"

He stands, seemingly enraptured in the attention. Then he makes to stride offstage, but instead walks off the stage and lands on the conductor.

"Alright, Tony. Tone down the lights, and add 'sunglasses' to the costume list," called Anna from offstage. "Note to self: Try using recorded music next time. OK, can we get some people to clean up Makepeace?"

"Baztuk, Xerxes!" ROI snaps her fingers, glowing with happiness over the practically flawless re-rendering of Shakespearian script. "That's the longest I've written anything serious," she mused.

"Don't give up your day job," mutters Nathaniel.

"Don't wear that red cap with those green pantaloons!" shouted Makepeace. "That'll clash cultures!"

* * *

Thank you, and please have a nice day after reviewing. Or before, if you intend to do so at some point. Or have a nice day in general, because it is not good to hold grudges. OK, have a nice day, but it would be nice for me if you reviewed and all that. Bye! 


	3. Act One Scene One

"He jests at scars that never felt a wound," Nathaniel sighs. "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?"

"Oh, John, John, wherefore at though Mandrake?" sighed Fred.

Taking another handful of paper slips, and scanning their names, ROI sighs in much the same manner, and eats the paper.

"I'd shay tere'sh about tirteen less, now," she said through a mouthful of wood pulp.

* * *

Wahoo! Reviews, I love 'em! 

A few of them mentioned that I misspelled 'Nathaniel' in the title . . . but I didn't! It was actually a different name! See, Nathan**i**el means 'gift of God', and Nathanael refers to 'the Israelite without guile', which means . . . the same as 'gift of God' . . . and I chose it because . . . it meant 'Israelite without guile' . . . and I meant . . . not for anyone to ask, really . . . I was worrying somebody _would_ ask, though. I mean, the 'A' key is a fair bit away from the 'I' key.

Thank you Rekhyt, you were the first to review and draw my attention to the painfully easy to misinterpret title.

Thanks Anonymous person. I was really happy with the Prologue I did. I had to count syllables and everything, but I know I've messed up the feet. I'll be as eloquent as a . . . as . . . often as I can.

Musica Diabolos, thanks for the encouragement. I love being inventive. Makes me feel . . . inventive!

Crazy and Evil, don't worry. No matter how much symbolism your drama teacher can drag out of this stuff, it doesn't change the fact that this is about violence, revenge, and bawdy puns. Mercutio makes it all better.

Thank you, XxBlackChaosxX. I've seen some of your constructive criticism (great whopping paragraphs of it) and I'm glad I got off lightly. Phew.

Akatsuki Will, I am updating as fast as I can. I've got a couple of other fics that are glaring at me . . . and my original work is pacing its cage in frustration. However, this is the easiest thing I have going, so there is a greater chance it'll be updated quickest. Pressure helps the talent.

Anyway, onwards!

Disclaimer: I disclaim ownership of: The Shakespeare Works (copyright, I imagine, of Shakespeare), the 'No Fear Shakespeare' series (where I get my translation), Michael Gow and his works (I'm in fact going to see one of his works performed . . . for my assessment) and the Bartimaeus Trilogy, by Jonathon Stroud.

* * *

Act One, Scene One: A meeting, a battle, then a meeting!

"Brilliant! Brilliant!" cheered ROI, clapping her hands enthusiastically. "Encore!"

Makepeace was being carried away in happy delirium.

"Thank you, thank you," he said dreamily. "I would like to thank Shakespeare, Shaw, and in no way Gow."

Baztuk looked at Xerxes. "Is him that pioneer of Australian theatre?"

Xerxes nodded his flared and offended crown. "We will deal with him when the time comes."

They dropped him in the props crate.

"The play's the thing! Wherein I'll catch the conscious of the king!" Makepeace cheered from on top of an extremely realistically fake crown and a nondescript real one.

"Hey, there's an idea. Anyway, now that's over, we've got the first scene in the first act to make," said ROI, slapping on a director's hat with one hand and opening the script with another.

"So, who's in it?" asked Kitty.

"Luckily, unlike the prologue, this stuff isn't all in verse, so I should have a lot more freedom to contemporise some of the phrases and situations—"

"I said, who's in it?" Kitty demanded, more from irritation than interest.

"Well, you're not, Juliet," ROI flicked through a couple of pages. "Right. We need: a pair of servants from each household; Benvolio, friend of Romeo and Montague's nephew; Tybalt, Lady Capulet's nephew; the Prince Escalus; the both heads of the families and, last but not least, Romeo!"

Nathaniel groans and covers his eyes.

"And who are supposed to play these parts?" Kitty demanded. "Or did you forget to plan like last time?"

The infamous procrastinator grins evilly, and waves a sheet of paper. "Did you really think I'd do that?"

The cast and crew that could speak all affirm.

"Shut up! Yes, I have got a plan, for all of you," ROI glowers menacingly, then checks the list.

"OK! Servants of the Capulet, Gregory and Sampson, will be Fred and Martin. Drag one out from the river and dress up Martin. Servants of the Montague, Abraham and Balthazar, will be Jabor and Farquarl. Make sure Jabor gets a big meal before going onstage," the brave, experienced and armoured stagehands run off to fetch these.

"Good. Now, Prince, Prince . . . who would make a good Prince? Now, Mr Mandrake," She cuts of Nathaniel. "No role-swapping, what have I said? Prince, Prince— ah-hah! So obvious! Somebody fetch Du-veray, er, Devil-array, um, how you say? Devereaux? That's it. He's our man." A timid stagehand named Donald runs off to get him.

"Now, where was I? Yeah, Benvolio. Let's make a stab, and say . . . Lovelace!"

"What?" shouts Nathaniel. "_Him?_"

"Totally! Benvolio, like benevolence, and Lovelace, like Love . . . Lace. Hmm, maybe 'Makepeace' would have worked as well, but what the hey."

Nathaniel turns and starts begging the cast. "Please, _please_, don't let me do this."

Half the assorted magician chuckle in pleasure, so he's getting no help from them."

"OK, and we've got the family heads as, let's see, for the Montague, Underwood and Mrs Underwood, and for the Capulets, Mr Pennyfeather and . . . Miss Whitwell."

Protests from Kitty now. "_What?_ She's not even a Commoner!"

"I know that!" says ROI in affront (I _did_ read the books, you know). "But, you know, Pennyfeather's wife is dead, so I though dead . . . hey, there's Jessica! OK, someone fetch them!"

"OK, and the last, and certainly not least character . . . Tybalt! Whoo! Tybalt! His anger was responsible from changing the romance into the tragedy!"

"You _did_ research this," Kitty begrudged.

"Nah, actually I wrote an essay, did a modernized extract, watched three different movies about it and got a study guide next to me. Anyway, who was I doing? Oh, yeah, the infamous Tybalt, to be played by the equally infamous: Mercenary Man!"

The crew shift nervously. The cast glance at one another, asides from Kitty, who shouts again: "He's not a Commoner!"

"Irregardless, I will play my part as my employer wishes," says the Mercenary blandly, making everyone jump.

"You! How did you get here?" demanded Nathaniel.

"Seven-league boots are rumoured to travel on the eighth plane, so—"

"I _mean_, how did he get here? He's dead!" Nathaniel interrupts my incredibly deeply thought-about explanation.

"This scenario is based on the suspension of belief on the plot of the series," says ROI frostily. "This enables me to use all characters used throughout the series, and may I remind you Mr Mandrake that if I didn't use this method I may be unable to use _you_."

"Oh, and that _would_ be a shame," said Bartimaeus sarcastically.

"Silence lest I make you one of the corpses at the end of the play! Everyone to your places, we're going on in 5, 4, 3, 2,—"

"Wait! We haven't even looked at our lines yet!" protested Nathaniel."

"—1!"

London in what stands as its summer time. The streets are bustling with crowds doing their weekly shopping. They are so thick on the sidewalks the two lackeys of Kitty have to rudely shove at every distracted commoner to make it through the crush.

"Lackeys? Do ya want my knife in your guts?" growled Fred as he threw the second person who stepped on his foot into the road.

"Oi! Stay in character!" ROI calls unperturbed from the side.

"On my word, we'll not carry coals," Fred corrects himself. "Lest your affections be my spiteful dagger in thine ribs."

"That's _my_ line," Martin glares. "And it's: Gregory, on my word we'll not carry coals."

"I was ad-libbing," Fred defended himself.

"Ad-libbing? In a _Shakespeare play?_"

"I strike quickly when I get angry," threatened Martin.

"Keep your neck out of the crook of my hook, and get back on track!" ordered the director. "Take two!"

Fred and Martin sidle down the street with knifes by their sides and Resistance sense on high alert. As they slip carefully through the mass, they converse in quiet voices.

"Fred, on my word we won't pick pockets," says Martin.

"No, for then we'll be nothing but common thieves," Fred agrees.

"That's not what I meant!" Martin snaps. "What I mean is, I won't take no trash from the magicians, and I'll show them my fist."

Fred snorts. "Yeah, you can try that, but make sure you keep out of the tower."

Martin seethes. "But I get angry quickly . . ."

Passing an innocent grocer's stand, he rips out an apple, sending the display's contents over the streets to the frustration of the greengrocer and surprise of the shoppers, who slip and get apple guts all over the stage.

"But you hardly ever lose it," Fred lies obviously.

"It's going to make the floor all sticky, and attract flies, and I'll never be allowed in this dimension pocket again," muttered the director.

"THEM GODDAMN MAGICIANS MAKE ME MAD!" screamed Martin.

"To get angry means you're on the defence. To be on the defence means to be on the run. So if you get mad, that means they've won," said Fred sagely.

Martin is shouting unintelligently.

"It shows what a one-shot character you are," mutters Fred.

"I'm gonna shove them magicians into the road and shove their servants to the wall!" Martin rants.

"We don't have to worry about organizing the Resistance, we've got our illustrious leaders to lead us," said Fred, strangely reasonably.

"They're all the same!" Martin spits. "I'm going to be just as dirty as the magicians! When I'm done with those bastards, I'll be nice to the collaborators. I'll relieve them.

Pregnant pause. "Er . . . relieve them how?"

"Of their wealth! What did you think I was talking about?" asks Martin suspiciously.

You know, Shakespeare's not as 'cultured' as you may think.

"Never mind. Don't you think it's not their fault?" questioned Fred.

"Nevertheless, I will resist as long as I can stand. It is well known I am a pretty piece of characterisation," Martin preened.

"It's no good unless you're a viewpoint; even if you were, you'd be poor comparison to the first-person perspective of a djinni," Fred points out. "Oi, look sharp. Here come some pets of the magicians."

The pair of the cook and indistinct shadow pause a moment as they spot the members of the Resistance. Farquarl steps in front of Jabor as he begins to foam and drool at the sight of the tasty morsels.

"Me shiny silver's out. Challenge them. I'll stand behind you," Martin mutters, flicking his knife out of his sleeve.

"Back me how?" asks Fred suspiciously. "Let them chew on my backside while you scarper?"

"Fear not!" Martin says with relish, waving his shiny blade.

"It's not you I'm worried about," Fred sighs.

The djinn look at each other, then slowly start marching towards them.

Martin fixes his eyes on the spirits and grins in anticipation. "Make sure they don't get any advantage over us. Make 'em break their own conditions."

Fred rolls his eyes at the enthusiastically mad fellow. "I'll just look them in the eye. Let them do their own thing."

"Or as much as they can," Martin licks his lips. "I'll give them the finger. They can't stand that."

It was extremely unlikely that the average djinn, many centuries old and battle worn, would appreciate the simple gesture that evolved long after the bloodiest wars. However, one of these djinn was not average.

"HE'S BITING HIS THUMB!" roars Jabor, attempting to leap forward.

Farquarl grabs him around the waist.

"Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?" Farquarl asks politely.

"I did just bite my thumb," said Martin mischievously.

"HE SAID IT! HE SAID IT!" screamed Jabor.

"Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?" inquired Farquarl, not budging.

"Does the law help us if I agree?" Martin asks Fred at the side.

"Does he know this is just a play?" wondered Fred.

"KILL! KILL!" Jabor spits and snarls.

At the sight of the gaping maw of the cloaked jackal man, Martin shrinks and pales.

"N-No, sir, I never bit my thumb at you. I was— was— just sucking it, sir," Martin demonstrates, chuckling weakly and retreating behind Fred.

"Dear Lord," Fred sighs to the heavens, then directs to Farquarl. "Do you want to make something of it?"

"I QUARREL! I QUARREL! I'M GUNNA GRAB YOU BY YOUR FLAPDOODLE (1), RIP OUT YOUR MUNGO (2), AND HANG YOU BY YOUR FIGGIN!"

"What's a figgin?" asked Martin cautiously.

"It's a type of pasty containing raisins," Farquarl explains. "No, we don't want to make anything of it."

"But if you do want to make something of it," Martin says carefully. "I'm ready for you. My master's just as good as yours."

"Better, I'll bet," said Farquarl demurely.

"Ah . . ." Martin shudders at the sheer calmness of the djinni.

Like a lake before a very impressive staff of authorisation, the Commoners part before the path of Simon Lovelace. He is a confident, imposing member of government, and not at all impressive to the Resistance. —

—

"Hey! Somebody tell the infomercial man he's in the wrong play!" Bartimaeus calls from offstage. "Macbeth's on later!"

"Oi! You're not supposed to mention 'The Scottish Play' in theatre!" the director warns.

"What was that? I said 'Macbeth', not 'Scottish Play'," Bartimaeus frowns. "When I said Macbeth, I mean that play with that guy called Macbeth. I think Macbeth was Scottish. Why can't I say Macbeth?"

"Because it's bad luck," ROI explains pleadingly. "And besides, I'd never make Lovelace Macbeth! He's more an Iago."

"Now you said it!" gasped Bartimaeus in horror. "Don't you know it's bad luck?"

—

—"Do I think I'm better?" Farquarl inquires Martin.

"What? I don't know, I've never heard anything about— oh," Martin realizes. "Er, yeah. You think you're so hot? Just say it, I dare ya. My mate's coming."

"Oh, I am so scared," says Farquarl blandly.

"Yeah, right," sighs Fred.

"Draw, if you be men . . . ish. Fred, remember your killing swipe," Martin says, whipping out his knife with relish.

"OK, stage directions: They fight," ROI reads out. "Right, everyone be careful. Don't get so excited that you accidentally—"

"Hie!" Farquarl cries, letting go of Jabor.

"KILL!" roars Jabor, darting forward almost too fast for eyes.

"Duck!" Martin shouts to himself, so he could follow his own advice. The jackal man shoots over his head, skids on the stage, producing deep gorges, and flings himself again.

"Elemental orbs! Elemental orbs!" Martin cries as he furiously waves his silver blade in frenzied arcs with the air of completely out of his depth.

"Can't," states Fred. "I can't have them. It's just a play."

"Tell that to him!" Martin screams, a masterful stroke of reflex giving Jabor a slash on his jaw.

"I'LL HAVE YOUR FIGGINS IN MY CLAWS!" Jabor roars, obviously having issues about pasties. —

—

"Lovelace!" calls ROI in panic. "Help! Benvolio, Tybalt, Capulet, _anybody!_"

"Go for their necks, Jabor," Lovelace orders calmly.

"_Benvolio!_" the director cries, aghast.

"I'll give you a buck to Stipple Jabor in full flight," offered Bartimaeus.

"Nice try, demon," says Lovelace, strapping on a 'sword'. "It'll take more than that to repay for the Monet you destroyed on your last visit."

"One of the first artists to join the Impressionist movement, Monet was especially skilled at using the 'broken colour' technique, to make the effect of light-play more effective," ROI recounts helpfully.

"You're not cool," states Bartimaeus.

"Silence, Mr Soon-to-be-Rosencrantz-or-Guildenstern!" ROI whips out her directors bullhorn. "Oi! Benvolio! Break a leg and shake a leg!"

"Physical impossibility."

"That's enough, Miss Soon-to-be-crazy-Ophelia Jones! Hey, that might work . . ."

—

—"Part, fools!" Lovelace calls, one hand on his hilt. "Put your arms down. You don't know what you're doing."

"On the contrary," says Farquarl. "I have been in many battles of great calibre. This one time, in Second Intermediate Period—"

—

"Liar!" calls Bartimaeus. "You were never there! You were released after your master choked on a piece of garbage!"

Farquarl shot a loathing gaze at Bartimaeus. "I was so there. It was I, in fact, who drove back the Hyksos, alone, with my imp army—"

"In your gold-plated chariot, I expect!"

"Well, it wasn't that Ramses!"

"Break it up, break it up. We can discuss historical controversies later," ROI says, making placating gestures with her hands. "In the meantime, Bartimaeus, if you could just let Farquarl go on with his scene—"

"Scene? You haven't seen his _real_ scenes! This one time, in Pompeii—"

"I never!" Farquarl denies.

"Oh, yeah? I suppose the place blew up on its own! Didn't matter after the volcano exploded, though," Bartimaeus says. "We're keeping close to real historical occurrences."

"_I'll_ give you historical occurrences!" Farquarl threatens.

"Ex_cuse_ me! I've got sources to investigate and— oh, I guess you guys would be a lot of help then. If you could just—"

"Remember at the Valleys of Kings?"

"Hey, if I hadn't blown up that rock face, Tutankhamun's tomb would've been raided!"

"Ooo, look at me! I helped Professor Charter! Right after I helped a poor little literate human understand the mysteries of the universe!"

"You're going to eat that rolling pin—"

"Alright! Are we going to do this the easy way, or the hard way?" shouted ROI, balancing, quite skilfully I must say, on the director's chair.

"And what makes you think that I'd find you the remotest bit intimidat—"

: Ka-crack:

"To be, or not to be?" Bartimaeus soliloquies on the ground.

"Dude, your inflection sucks," says ROI, swinging the long-handled hook with barbs and lumps all over it that she dubs 'The Hook of Bruised Souls'. "Back on scene."

"Make me," challenges Farquarl. "I could go rounds with you and that—"

"Tybalt, do your stuff."

"Right."

"Excuse me, I wasn't finished—"

"Back on scene."

"What—"

—

—"What?" demanded the Mercenary, all splendour-ed clothes and shiny sabre, not to mention the massive boots that grossly dominated his legs. I'm not even going to talk about the effect of tights (I'm biting my lip now). But the important thing is: he dominated the scene.

"Art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?" the Mercenary bellows. "These pitiful spirit slaves? Turn, Lovelace, and look upon thy doom. I'll pay you back for forgetting to pay me," he hissed.

He's got two tonnes of boot polish and a fully stocked prop artillery with me. It's surprising how much a minimalist block can hurt when you run into it, and I don't want to talk about the havoc one can wreck with a curly wig.

"I'm only doing what my ambition tells me," Lovelace cringes. "So please don't hurt me. Hurt them," he pointed to the Farquarl and Jabor team.

"We don't get any lines now," muttered Farquarl.

"At least Balthazar delivers messages for the stars!" Jabor roars resentfully.

"You have scattered your servants, and talk of peace?" shouted the Mercenary, even though Lovelace hadn't (his name must be a misnomer! Smart, devious Stroud!) "I hate the concept as I hate unemployment— both defeat the purpose of being a Mercenary— as I hate all Montagues, such as yourself. Have at thee, scrooge!"

They fight. Again. This time, the Commoners notice, and three or four CITIZENS arrive, with hastily made weapons, hastily obtained weapons or fists with hastily gained skills.

"Extras: attack!"

"Clubs, bills, and partisans!" calls Nick, urging on his fellows.

"Wands, spells, and spirits!" calls Jenkins, urging on his mob.

"Beat 'em up!"

"Strike!"

"Beat them down!"

"Smite them over!"

"Down with the Montagues!"

"Down with the Capulets!"

At this vital point in the scene, we bring forth more characters to participate in the dialogue element.

Mr Pennyfeather pushes open his store's door. "What's the racket? Give me my sabre, ho!"

"I am not!" rebuked Jessica Whitwell.

If you're going to be difficult . . .

"A crutch! A crutch! How could you use a sabre?" Whitwell disapproves.

Do we need any more to keep track of? Here comes the other family!

Underwood and Mrs Underwood come running.

"What racket is . . . : cough : . . . : wheeze : " Underwood attempts, but fails. He calls forth his blue goblin-imp.

"My elemental orbs, I say!" calls Pennyfeather impatiently. "Old, ugly, Underwood has come, and he's flaunting his power just to make me mad!"

"You are a villain! And a mean person! Let go of me, woman!" for Mrs Underwood, the practical soul that she is, had grabbed onto him.

"You will not take one step towards that scene," she threatens maternally.

Do we have enough characters to keep track of? No! I could go for another love triangle! Let's bring on the Prince, who is not part of any love triangle . . . though it would be interesting.

The Prime Minister, Rupert Devereaux, enters his scene with a motley band of escorts— including a resigned Queezle, a vibrating-with-suppressed-rage Lime, and a very sorrowful Donald.

"Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, profaners of this neighbour-stained steel!" the start of a very impressive monologue, but it wasn't picked up.

"Back, you vile, villainous v . . . v . . . very bad person!"

"Die, you ferny-figgened fiend!"

". . . It is not!"

"Will they not hear?" Devereaux bellowed to no-one, though it was right in Donald's ear (poor kid). "What, ho!"

"Am not!" snapped back Queezle.

"You men, you demons, that dedicate fountains of essence for your fiery rage . . . OI! YOUS THERE! LISTEN TO ME!"

The brawlers brawl away.

"I bid thou all listen . . . ON PAIN ON THE TOWER, PUT DOWN YOUR BLOODY WEAPONS AND LISTEN TO ME!"

The brawl paused. Heh, it's a funny word. Brawl. It's bRAWl. It's like YAWN, only with fighting. Anyway . . .

"Three civil wars, bred of an airy word—"

"It was _not_ airy word!" Jabor protested. "Them there bit their thumbs at us!"

Silence, Abraham.

"_Bred of an airy word!_ By you guys, Pennyfeather and Underwood, and made London's citizens put down their labours and pick up nearby rubble and make the rest of the place rubble as well. _Have the grace to look ashamed, please!_" the families don't look convinced.

"TOWER OF LONDON!" now they look very concerned.

"If you should ever disturb these streets again, your lives— yes, yours Underwood— shall pay the forfeit of the peace. For this time— yes, one in semblance of God of Mummification?"

"What about spirits?"

"What about them?"

"Will you kill 'em?"

"Well, it wouldn't make any difference— But of course it might be more practical if we let them go and treat them nicely and not hold them up by their collars . . . or stare at them hungrily . . . please put me down."

Jabor puts the nice eight-figure-salary person down.

"Anyway, you, Capulet, come with me. Then I'll see the Montagues for afternoon tea. Don't forget your togas! And as for the rest of you, you're all just background characters. Just don't come near me and I won't send you to the Tower of London. Now get lost!"

Exeunt all but Montague, Lady Montague, and Benvolio.

That means all but Underwood, his wife, and his rival gets their disposable selves of the stage. Move it!

Underwood, in his paranoid, irresponsible, and one-shot way, looks for a scapegoat. "Who started it? Nephew?"

"It wasn't me!" glared Lovelace, bringing up Jabor with a snap of his fingers.

"Of course not," said Underwood hastily. "But were you about when it started."

"Yes, sir," said Lovelace, take a deep, lung-filling breath to prepare for his next speech.

"Tybalt started it!"

"No, no, no!" called the director offstage in frustration. "It's: Here were the servants of your adversary . . ."

"Here were the servants of your adversary . . ."

"And yours—"

"They were not!"

"No, it's not— ugh! Just elaborate!"

"The big scary guy I hired to kill the guy that had the medallion I wanted as part of my scheme to kill everybody and conquer the British government came . . . without the hook, please. Came all ablaze with his boots a-polished, which, as he huffed insubordination in my direction, he ran about on, taunting and intimidating etcetera. As we exchanged nasty looks, more and more people came to join, until the honourable Devereaux came and sent everybody home."

"Oh, where is Nathaniel?" asked Mrs Underwood.

Silence.

"Who?" asked Underwood.

"Am I the only one thinking about our adopted son?" hissed Mrs Underwood.

"Oh! You mean John!" said Lovelace, starting to pull out a notebook to record this. However, it mysteriously burst into flames. How it could have merely by being looked at by me is beyond my understanding. But moving on.

"Did you see my John? I hope he wasn't caught in the cross-fire," Mrs Underwood worriedly, like a good parent should.

"Eh, we need to start over with a fresh apprentice anyway," said Underwood absent-mindedly, cleaning out his ear with a finger.

Mrs Underwood, and indeed many other fans of the Bartimaeus Trilogy, wondered why she'd ever married.

"Madam, as I do every morning, I rise before dawn to do my daily jog—" the liar! He wasn't there when I was trying to kidnap him for— never mind, "So 'neath the cold, iron arches of Glass Palace I found him. I made toward him for polite conversation—" uh-huh— "—but with his Sensor Web he did sense me, and so hid in the Sideshow Alley. After fruitless searching for him with my sensor imps (I lost three, by the way), I appreciated his want for solitude, and gladly shunned who gladly fled from me."

That's not what you said in _The Amulet of Samarkand_!

"Oh, he's done that often," said Underwood, unconcernedly checking his collar for ash marks. "Sighing and moaning over Gladstone knows what. But as soon as Aurora's light rebounds off the skyscrapers he is back at home with his windows shuttered and makes himself an artificial night-before-exams. Black and portentous must this humour prove, and would be darn silly to think to remove."

"My removed uncle, do you know the cause?" asked Lovelace.

Underwood stared at him.

"Have you asked him?" Lovelace suggested.

Underwood still stared.

Mrs Underwood sighed, and took his script from his nicotine-stained hands.

"Both by myself and many other co-workers," she admits. "But he keeps his thoughts to himself— I will not say how true a magician he is, but he is as taught: 'Safe, Secret, Secure.' He is as a book unable to be opened as there has been so much spilt on its pages as written. Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, we would as willingly give cure as know."

Considering he is the first name in the title, Nathanael (Nathaniel, you know) comes dragging his feet. He is young (for a magician), well built (for a magician) and dreamy (for any person that should be allowed to live). His 'parents' spot him, and as all bad parents should, decide not to stick around.

"See, there he is. Perhaps if we—"

"Thank you so much for volunteering to relay the story back to us later. Later," Underwood quickly excuses, and dashed off.

Mrs Underwood sighs, and at least waves decently before exeunt-ing.

Lovelace grudgingly signals to Nathaniel. This is a worthless action, because Nathaniel makes a certain point of ignoring him. This is a priceless example of why cross-over genres don't always work.

"Good Wednesday, cousin!" Lovelace calls to Nathaniel's retreating back.

The younger magician stiffens.

"What? Is the week already half past?" he demands.

"No. I was just testing your reaction. But it is already nine o'clock," Lovelace explains.

"Ay me! Ay me? Who writes this?" Nathaniel shakes a script copy.

—

—"Shakespeare. Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Most, if not all, Shakespearean plays were written by Shakespeare. Or Christopher Marlowe— but that's a different story. Moving on."—

—"Ay me! Sad hours seem long. Was that my 'father' who ran as if an afrit was on his tail?" inquired Nathaniel.

"Yes. What makes your days so long? What makes your life so miserable? It's not something as petty when, say, you are a man working in an enormous government building with no space for dreams? For ambitions? It's not like _you_ had to fight off every Tom, Dick and Harry Potter to get a place by the Prime Minister, right? So tell me, what was so incredibly eye-opening that got you a place in a trilogy where I only participated for one instalment? HUH? Eh, pretty boy? What can you say to that?"

"What are _you_ complaining about?" asked Queezle resentfully from clipping Devereaux's toenails. "_I_ didn't even get one full part. I was killed off in less than two chapters, if you don't count that prologue."

"Oh really, Miss She-who-can-be-in-a-canon-pairing?" Lovelace shot back.

"Oh, excuse _me_ Mr Major-story-arc-motivation! I didn't realize my _single-plot event_ influence was such an intimidation to you!"

"Convenient chapter motivation!"

"Convenient childhood trauma inducer!"

"Break it up, break it up," said ROI wearily. "Much as I love hearing these unconnected characters fight really . . . compatibly, we haven't got much of the scene left. Let's wrap it up so I can try some homework."

"What makes my hours so long? Not having that which, having, makes them short," Nathaniel sighs.

—

—"Amphetamines?" suggest Bartimaeus off stage.

—

—"In love?" asks Lovelace.

"Out," sighs Nathaniel.

—

—"I could hook you up," suggests Fred, enjoying a cigarette.

"Cease these jokes!" commands ROI.

—

—"Of amp— I mean, Aphrodite's favour?" Lovelace inquires.

"Out of her favour, where I am in love," explains Nathaniel sadly.

—

—"I am _really_ going to enjoy this play!" sighs Farrar.

It took a lot to restrain myself from making her go "SQUEEE!" I've got to keep some semblance of character.

—

—"Such a shame that love, so exciting while still new, should be so rough and manipulative when older!" Lovelace shook his head.

—

—"Like I said. I know this guy—"

"You! Out! Now! Cigarette! Out! Next time!"

—

—"Shame that love, supposedly blind in manner, should be able to manipulate a man so!" Nathaniel laments. "So, where shall we have lunch— Oh, Gladstone! Is that a spot?" Nathaniel points in horror, now noticing the slightly frayed surroundings. "No, tell me not, for I have heard it all before. Here's much to do with hate, but more with love."

It is now Nathanael goes into his very profound listing of oxymorons.

"Oh brawling love, oh loving hate, oh anything of nothing first created! Oh heavy lightness, unwarranted vanity, misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!"

Lovelace checks his nails. He might have the start of a hangnail on his right index.

"Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, living dead, plastic glass, almost perfect, silent scream, jumbo shrimp . . ."

—

—". . . You forgot your lines, didn't you?"

"Well, you gave us no time to review them!" Nathaniel pointed out sullenly.

"It was . . . it was supposed to be spontaneous . . . from the heart!" the director thumped her hand on the Hook of Bruised Souls. She hit a lump.

"Ow," she muttered, rubbing it while trying to hold her script on her lap. "Let's see, you were up to: 'It's still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!' Hmm, I guess if you're a renowned playwright from the distant centuries you can get away with anything. "Let's go."

—

—"It's still waking sleep, that is not what it is! This . . . uh . . . love feel . . . I? Are we sure about this?"

—

—"Is anyone sure about anything? MOVE IT!"

—

—"This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Hey! Are you laughing?"

"No— : Snort : coz. I am merely coughing with hayfever, at-choo, at-choo," Lovelace clamps his hands over his teeth. "I rather weep— Mmph!" Lovelace turns away. "Must not laugh, must not laugh, think of demons. Demons in the rain. Demons hiding in the rain to— Yes, not laughing now."

"Good man, at what?" asks Nathaniel suspiciously.

"At thy good heart heart's op— _Assassins! Usurpers! Little kitten demons gnawing at my arms!_"

"That is the canon of canon love," sighs the sigh-full Nathaniel. "My sadness sits heavy in my chest, and . . . yadda, yadda, yadda . . . you adding you sorrow to mine is not helping. This is what love is: smoke of lovers' sighs. When the air is cleared, it is fire burning in your lover's eyes. If you irritate love, you have a sea of lover's tears . . . where the heck did I get this knowledge? How old is this boy supposed to be? Fifteen?" Nathaniel demands.

—

—"Sixteen. Juliet is about thirteen, turning anyway . . . Now that I think about it, it is a bit 'icky'," mused ROI. "But that's not the point of the story. It's about battles, long family feuds and doomed . . . important characters, but it gets better later! Stick with it!"

—

—"What is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet. See you later, coz," Nathaniel gives up and turns to go.

"Wait," Lovelace calls. "I'll come with you. Leaving me behind is selfish." He frowns, and checks his lines.

"Meh. You can't come with me," Nathaniel shakes his head. "I've not been myself. This is not Nathanael— he is someone I once knew."

That would be so profound and tragic, if I could find a place to put it.

"So tell me seriously who has you in love?" Lovelace presses, understandably annoyed by all this now.

"What? Should I groan and tell you?" Nathaniel reluctantly asks.

"Just tell me what freaking wench as got you so out of character!" Lovelace shouts.

Nathaniel snorts. "Look who's talking."

—

—"Get serious! There're 37 lines left!"

—

—"You wouldn't tell a sick man to make his will 'seriously'?"

—

—"YES I— Oh, line 195. Sorry."

—

—"It is an ill word to use in the situation. But, in seriousness, dear cousin, I do love a woman."

"You're sure about that?"

"What?"

"Nothing. I suspected as much already . . . you changed your handkerchief to blue . . ." Lovelace muttered, suspiciously.

"A good shot you are! And she is most beautiful," Nathaniel said quickly.

"Yeah, well, a fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit," Lovelace preened himself in the mirror.

"Hah! You're wrong there!" Nathaniel's expression changed to sorrow. "She shall never be hit with Cupid's arrow. She is of Diana's— goddess of hunting and virginity— sympathy, and so has chastity's armour."

—

—"That rules out Farrar."

"HEY!"

—

—"From love's weak childish bow, she lives un-charmed. She will take no words of love, or loving gazes—"

—

—"Although it could be close."

—

—"Nor accept a bounty to sway a saint!"

—

—"Definitely not."

—

—"Oh, she is rich in beauty," laments the lovesick lo . . . and behold, it's Nathaniel! "But poor as when she dies, so too will her beauty."

"So, she'd be like a nun, then?" Lovelace clarifies, going over his nails with an emery board.

". . . I suppose," Nathaniel agrees. "By staying . . . home on Saturdays, she wastes her beauty. Because of starving herself of . . . the gene pool, she depraves future generations of her beauty. She is too beautiful and too wise to deserve heaven's blessing by making me despair—"

—

—"You're sure it isn't me?" Farrar asks pleadingly.

"Totally. There was chastity, nun, and Saturdays doing homework in those monologues."

—

— "She hath forsworn to love . . . I think that works, and so because that vow I am left alive but dead, hinged on talking about this."

"Take my advice," said Lovelace, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Forget about her."

Stealthily removing himself, Nathaniel (again) laments. "If only I could forget!"

If Lovelace adds anything else . . . "By giving liberty unto thine eyes, examine other . . . possible outlets. Become a Prime Minister, or something."

"That shall only have me . . . me . . . it's near impossible to join that sentence onto my monologue."

Do your best.

"No possible way could I want to do such a think!" Nathaniel cries to the emptying streets (there's a cappuccino maker in the back). "That shall ever remind me of the passion I lost! Masks are used only to make us think of the ladies' beauties underneath them! To see network diversified is only to bring on the memories of the two-way network we could have had! Farewell. You could never teach me to forget." Holding a handkerchief to his tearing eyes, he quickly strides away from his cousin.

"I could if you didn't kill my damn Marid!" Lovelace shouted after him.

_Exeunt. Exeunt all!_

* * *

"Well, _that_ was like a week in a desert," said Anna, stirring her cappuccino. 

"I couldn't help it! I was getting Writer's Block from school," ROI lamented, adding a third spoonful of sugar to her tea.

"You remember the Statewide Writing Competition is this Tuesday, right?" Anna reminds her, taking a sip.

"Dear Lords . . ." whimpers the exhausted senior, sinking to the ground (without spilling a cup of tea because it's too much description).

"The togas . . ." whimpers Donald, huddled on the ground next to her. "The horrible, horrible togas."

ROI passes her cup of tea over to him.

* * *

"But soft, what light through yonder window . . . GACK!" 

"Oh, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art though, Romeo?" Jabor laments mournfully to the stars, adjusting his white and tatted veil.

Dude, let's leave it there.


End file.
